


Cut Your Hair

by pocketbookangel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Barista Sherlock, Coffee, Fluff, Lestrade's Hair, M/M, Post Reichenbach, canon compliant coffeehouse, phrenology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-22 09:26:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/911602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketbookangel/pseuds/pocketbookangel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1. Cut Your Hair: Sherlock has an opinion about Lestrade's new haircut. A very short fic inspired by Lestrade's very short hair.</p><p>2. The Adventure of the Incompetent Barista: Sherlock goes undercover as a barista in a trendy coffeeshop. Lestrade is his least favourite customer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cut Your Hair

“It’s very short.” Sherlock ran his hand over Lestrade’s head. “You should be grateful phrenology has been discredited.”

“I don’t want to know what you mean by that. My wife used to cut my hair--now I go to a shop close to the Yard.” Lestrade covered Sherlock’s hand with his own.

“It makes you look like a copper.”

“Now observations like that are why you’re this country’s pre-eminent consulting detective.”

“This country’s?”

“I forgot, you’re the only one in the world.”

“Next time you need a haircut, let me do it. I think I could be quite good at it, and I would rather others didn’t see your _amativeness_.” He gently touched the back of Lestrade’s neck.

Lestrade said yes because he always said yes to Sherlock. It was a relief to hear Sherlock talk about the future, their future, even if he was only talking about months, not years. Lestrade let his hair grow until it had the permanently dishevelled, sleeping late after a night out look that wasn’t appropriate for work.

“Have you ever done this before,” Lestrade asked.

“I watched a video on YouTube, and it’s all maths really, working with angles and the shape of your face.” Sherlock had lined up an impressive collection of scissors and razors and mirrors on his table. They ranged from skinny and pointed, to ones that looked more suited for topiary. They all looked very new.

Sherlock examined Lestrade’s hair, carefully separating it into sections. “Your hair has texture,” he said disapprovingly. He picked up the long scissors, and the cutting began.

Lestrade closed his eyes and reminded himself that hair always grows back.

“Finished.” Sherlock handed Lestrade one of the larger mirrors. “What do you think?”

It was exactly the same haircut Sherlock had complained about weeks earlier.

Lestrade held the mirror at arm’s length where he could see Sherlock behind him, hesitantly waiting for the verdict.

“Perfect,” Lestrade said. “I love it.”


	2. The Adventure of the Incompetent Barista

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock goes undercover at a trendy coffeehouse.

Every day at the same time, his least favourite customer would appear. Sherlock scowled as Lestrade entered the coffeehouse.

“What do you recommend? A Chocolate Orange Frescalatte, or the Hazelnut Caramel Delite?” Lestrade grinned at his favourite barista.

“We sell single origin, pour over coffee, real coffee. You know that, Lestrade.” Sherlock kept his voice low even though rudeness to customers who wandered in and tried to order sweet, frothy drinks was encouraged by the managers. “You can have Organic Las Mariposas from Nicaragua, which contains notes of green apple and honey or Organic Canciones de Amor from Guatemala, with undertones of plum pudding and why don’t you get tea from the canteen and leave me alone.”

“I’ll take the one with the honey. Can I get it over ice?”

“No.”

Lestrade enjoyed watching Sherlock move behind the counter. It amazed him how quickly Sherlock had gone from not caring about the difference between Kenya peaberry and Nescafé, to complete expertise: weighing the beans, checking the water temperature, and carefully pouring the water over the grounds, moving the kettle in slow circles.

“We use 21 grams instead of the usual 18,” Sherlock said. “If you’re feeling poetic, they used to say 21 grams was the weight of the soul.”

 

_“I know it’s a front for money laundering. If you stay away, I will bring this case to you wrapped in a shiny bow and ready for prosecution.”_

_“Undercover work is dangerous, Sherlock. It’s something people train for.”_

_“Trust me. Everything will be fine.” Sherlock kissed Lestrade goodbye, putting aside his usual objections to “distractions” while working on a case._

 

Sherlock handed Lestrade a small paper cup without a lid. “Where are you going?” he asked.

“It’s the middle of the work day…” Lestrade almost said _use your detective skills_ , which would have raised suspicions if anyone had been listening. There were days when he wondered if Sherlock’s assessment of his intelligence was correct.

“Sit down,” Sherlock ordered.

Lestrade sat at the end of the counter and watched the steam dissolving in the air over his paper cup. The drink was much too dark. There were only two other customers in the coffeehouse, and both of them were busy on their laptops and looked like they hadn’t ordered any drinks in quite a while. Even with expensive coffee, letting freelancers use your internet all day was the road to failure. Sherlock had to be right about the money laundering.

Sherlock tore off his apron and dropped into the seat next to Lestrade. “How is it?” he asked.

“It’s great.” Lestrade took a sip and tried to smile.

“Liar.” Sherlock took the cup from Lestrade’s hands and swallowed. An extraordinary look crossed his face. He grabbed some packets of sugar from the counter, dumped them in the coffee, and tried again.

“Your coffee is shit,” Lestrade said. “I’m sorry, but it is.”

Sherlock nodded. “This is completely wrong. Get out.”

“I’m sorry--”

“Come back in eight minutes.”

 

Lestrade checked his watch, walked to the end of the street, and checked his watch again. Two minutes. It was at times like this he really missed smoking. Three minutes.

 

When Lestrade returned to the coffeehouse, Sherlock was chatting with the two customers. “I do taste the plum pudding,” one of them was saying enthusiastically.

“Here.” Sherlock handed Lestrade a fresh cup.

He sipped it cautiously. It didn’t taste like apples or honey or Christmas. It tasted like coffee.

“Now go back to work,” Sherlock said.

Lestrade sat on a park bench and finished the rest of his coffee. If he was going to be completely honest with himself, the reason he had kept going back despite the awfulness of Sherlock’s coffee wasn’t worry. Sherlock slipped in and out of his life irregularly, a flurry of text messages, a week of silence, then his distinctive voice would be heard from the outside the police tent, demanding to see the body. He had been worried about Sherlock’s investigation, but loved knowing where he was every day. Lestrade was willing to drink cup after cup of thick, black sludge if it meant he could see Sherlock whenever he wanted.

_I can feel you watching me and it disrupts my timing so the bloom is wrong. - SL_

Bloom? His phone buzzed again.

_When we live together you will have to make the coffee. - SL_

_When we live together._ Lestrade could feel his heart beating faster and it had nothing to do with all of the caffeine.

 


End file.
